


From now on our troubles will be out of sight

by it_was_so_human



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-16
Updated: 2017-12-16
Packaged: 2019-02-15 10:04:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13028733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/it_was_so_human/pseuds/it_was_so_human
Summary: Her lips are pink and soft. (And he wonders not for the first time, though it a terrible thing to wonder, how they must feel.)





	From now on our troubles will be out of sight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alittlestardustcaught](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alittlestardustcaught/gifts).



> Basically the Westeros version of your family bombarding you with relationship questions during the holidays.

He finds her standing on the battlement, looking over the walls of the castle. As if she was keeping guard over all of Winterfell by herself.  

Without turning around, she addresses him, “The Harvest Feast traditionally takes place during the harvest season. There are lords who take the delay as a slight by the Throne.”

Jon _knows_ this, he should have arrived well before the first snow had fallen. Had been kept busy by the Queen. His visit meant as a sign of goodwill to the North coming off more as an insult.

 _He knows this._ But he does feel the desire to reprimanded by Sansa Stark.

But when she turns around, he sees there’s a small smile playing on her lips.

“I suppose the Dragon Queen is unwilling to be parted from you for long.”

He holds in an audible groan. His relationship with his Aunt had strained heavily during the Great War and the first blush of romance had given way to a tense dynamic. Now he is only her nephew and reluctant temporary heir.

“She rather I be out of her way as much as possible these days.”

Sansa shakes her head, “I hardly blame her.”

A broad grin spreads across his face. 

She’s older since he’s seen her last. Her features more refined. The last traces of girlhood gone. A sophistication in their stead, transforming a pretty young lady into a beautiful woman.

And he realizes that she looks even more like her Lady Mother, an image of Catelyn Stark. He wonders if he should feel some pain or anger at her resemblance to a lady who shunned him. Or perhaps feel a resentment over her rightful claim to a title he desired his whole life.

But no, seeing her there with her strength and grace? The last of her family name?

Jon only felt a wave of pride. And affection.  

She may look like her mother, or carry herself with the honor of her father. But Sansa is truly only herself.

Her auburn hair was covered in part by her cloak, and perfect snowflakes caught on her lashes and melted on her lips.

He feels his throat tighten from some other emotion he cared not to name.

She looked ethereal standing there. _No._ No, that was not it.

She looked so very _real_. _Real enough to touch._

Her lips pink and soft. (And he wonders not for the first time, though it a terrible thing to wonder, how they must feel.)

“Winterfell looks almost fully restored. The improvements in winter town are impressive. Your ravens don’t do you justice.”

The ravens he receives with missives in her neat elegant handwriting. (Letter he covets, reads and rereads.) 

((He’s _missed_ her.))

Sansa seems pleased with his praise—a slight blushing on her cheeks—and nods in acknowledgement.

She seems to hesitate for a moment, before finally asking, “Did the Queen send a husband for me?”

He’s taken aback, _that_ was a question he did not expect.

“A… a husband?”

“The lords and vessels are whispering. They fear they must act quickly.”

“To do what exactly?”

She gives him a soft smile, “To find a husband for Lady Stark, of course.”

“A what?” He’s repeating himself. He feels foolish, but he must have misheard her.

(She’s suffered through two marriages and many betrothals. How could any loyal Northerner ask this of her? Just as she’s regained herself.)

“A _husband_. A reliable Northern husband. Before the Queen picks a Southron lord to stake a claim.”

“No. You are my sister, under my protection. How dare anyone—“

“I am your  _cousin_. And it is only practical. How long can a woman without an heir be able to wield control of the North?”

He hears himself let out a small growl in protest.

“Just because they are tired of fighting, doesn’t mean peace comes easily. They want security, Jon.”

“And you can marry—when you are ready. Someone of your choosing. A man you may love,” he manages.

“I am not upset by this; their concerns are legitimate. I have stopped dreaming of princes and love long ago.”

“Sansa…”

“After everything we’ve been through, everything we’ve lost? It’s an easy enough sacrifice to protect those we love.”

And he has no words so he opens his arms and she falls into them easily. Nestles closer him, and he holds her close.  

“Welcome home, Jon.”

 _Home._ The word was sweet. 

He lets out a thin laugh. (He did not realize how tired he truly was until just then.)

\- - - 

The Harvest Feast felt so very much like… a Winterfell Harvest Feast. Despite the long winter and slow returns, it was a hearty and welcoming fare.

Sansa Stark was able to do the work of both the Warden of the North and lady of a great house.

The hall decked and alight with candles and the feast gave way to dancing. Not the level of opulence as King’s Landing with the elaborate musicians and foreign performers Sansa had dreamed of as a child.

But still Winterfell’s held a warmth all its own. (And the walls of Winterfell felt more alive than the keep in King’s Landing ever did to him.)

And to Jon’s surprise, he was welcomed back into the fold, not as a Targaryen but a Northern son.

But the whispers Sansa warned of rang through the room. It seemed to be the task the lords aimed to resolve this Harvest Festival.

And when he brought his concerns up to Davos, there was little help on his part.

“Aye, she does have to marry.”

At Jon’s protest the older man only shrugs, “Is it not the way of things for lords and ladies? You too will have to marry.”

He tries, and fails, not to choke on his ale. 

The young Lady Mormont is sitting next to him and nods wisely, as if it obvious. “We were surprised you haven’t married your Queen, but I can’t imagine you won’t marry someone soon enough.”

And throughout the night his hands are fisted, knuckles white to keep from attacking the crude babbling he overhears. The disrespect falling from the lips of drunken noblemen.

_“I pity the man who would marry her, she’s like steel.”_

_“Ahhh, but imagine being the one to bed her. Warm her up a bit?”_

Sansa didn’t deserve a man who would be weary of her or one who would see her as a conquest merely or duty.

She should be… respected and cherished. Adored.

Just _look_ at her.

She was standing cross the room from him and practically _glowing_. Her auburn hair sparkling in the candlelight. Thick eyelashes framing bright Tully-blue eyes. Long elegant fingers that during the war delicately stitched skin and knitted socks and tallied grain supplies and comforted the dying.   
  
She catches his eyes, and gives him a small nod. A barely notable wink directed at him, breaking her ladylike countenance. 

(How could any man not love her?)

He wonders if he should ask her to dance. Wonders if he should save her from silly youths and scheming lords.

(Because perhaps he still wants to be the knight, wants to try his hand at saving a lady in distress.)

But as she smiles and accepts the hand of an elderly lord, he realizes doesn’t need him. Politicking and diplomacy is where she excels, not him.

So instead he resorts to glowering at the unworthy men in the hall.

(And he feels as sullen and broody now as he did as a child at his last feast in Winterfell, but there’s no helping it really.)

\- - -

At Davos’ advice, he trudges through the snow towards the godswood to find Sansa. To ask her what decision she has made before the lords meet that evening.

The snow was swirling, flurries creating a blanket of all that was pure and possible.

He should be tired of the snow. Should relish the sweet long Southron summer. Be dreading the chill the goes straight to the bones. Should be sickened of cold winds and curse at drifting flakes.

But instead he finds them haunting his dreams.

He dreams of memories of laughter ringing through the halls of Winterfell. Of untainted crisp winter snow, full of possibilities and untarnished hope.

Of Robb and Theon and snowball fights before the advent of destiny and war and blood in their lives. Of Arya, Bran, Rickon, and Sansa with frost covered hair.

(Despite the cold, his childhood always felt warm.)

She’s standing there, but he doesn’t want to disturb her. Not until he finds the right words.

He reaches down and touches the snow, soft and powdery. The perfect consistency for a snowball.

He sees her straighten, she’s sensed him and is waiting.

His fingers itch to break the silence. To do… _something_.

No one would dare throw a snow at Lady Stark… and yet he feels his hands packing together the perfect snowball and sending it flying towards.

It splatters against her beautiful locks, and her recoil in response makes his stomach tighten. He should have known better. Should not have ever surprised her—

But she only shoots him a glare, a glint of excitement in her eyes.

And quickly collects snow before running away to a more strategic location.

The laughter that escapes him as he follows after her is… _joyous_. (When are the Lady of Winterfell and the Crown Prince allowed to just…  _be_.)  

And they bombard one another with snowballs and when he finally catches her she surprises him by rubbing a handful of snow in his hair

And she is laughing and her otherwise perfect porcelain skin is the brightest of reds and her hair mussed with wild strands escaping her braid and snow is _everywhere_ and she looks _absolutely beautiful._

He feels his hand move on its own accord yet again, and now he’s tracing the hollow of her cheek with his knuckles.

It hurt to remember the excitement in her eyes upon her betrothal to the bastard Baratheon boy now replaced with yesterday’s simple resignation and duty.

He will do whatever he can to protect her from even more heartbreak. 

“Is there a man who will make you happy? One who may be worthy of you?”

And in response she only comes closer. And he can smell her soft floral scent and the crisp winter snow in her hair.

And she leans even closer, placing a kiss against the corner of his mouth. Her lips _soft and warm_ and he feels the world go still.

And after a pause, as his lips meet hers (soft and warm and _as_ _perfect_ as he ever imagined) he _understands_. 

The gentle unsure movement of her lips against his giving way to a slow exploration and the sweetest feeling he has ever known.

He feels her lips smiling against his, and it is simply… it is simply _right_.

She is his family and she is his _home_.

(And nothing could take him away again.)


End file.
